Œdenburg

This, with name recalling Eden,Doth its kindred wines exceed inDelicate bouquet.Lucky artist pair who found it,And as king of tipples crowned it,On a happy day.

Six months agoWe were here just so;

Three merry, merry men are we,One on the canvass and one on the turf,And Jack hard up a tree;But very, very little seeks heIf the purse be on the wane,So the girls are here again,And the good wine sparkling free.

Hence, avaunt! 'tis holy ground,Let no Greeley lurk around,Or Frothingham or Beecher,Or any other such creatureAs an "affinity" preacher,Or Cady coarse with double tongue,Harping upon woman's wrong.Woman's right is here to-night,

And the right women too;Women by travel and study enlightened,Who know what's what and who's who;Women who are not too easily frightened,Whatever you say or do;With whom you may joke and tipple and smoke;They are up to it all, as well as you.

But one of our sixJovial bricks,(Brick, you know, is an epicene noun)Warbles no more to a listening town.Far, far over the sea,In a gush of melody,Our sweet singing bird has flown.

So we must lean on a reed,(A pretty stout one indeed,)To make up for her that's gone.

Ἀυτὰρ ἐπεὶ πόσιοςΚαὶ ἐδητύος ἐξ ἔρον ἕντοWhen the guests had eaten their fill,And drunk as much as they meant to,Το βακχικόν δώρημαThey lit, in social expansion,Κάπνισσαν κατὰ κλισίαςAnd raised a smoke in the mansion,

Then you should have seen her, the pride of our girls,

The way she cast back the long sweep of her curls!Th' above panegyric is borrowed from Whittier.Perhaps, when you read, you are ready to pity her,For being so far behind or outsideThe fashion, since rarely a maid is descriedWho will let her hair loose in long curls now-a-days.If she wanders in fashion's mysterious ways,She bunches it up in some curious maze.So I hasten to tell you at once (without joke)The curls that I speak of were ringlets of smoke,

Look at her! Hear her! Worship her there!As she sits at her ease in a soft arm-chair,Between the puffs of her light cigaretteTossing out melody, jet after jet,And the hearers are all agreedNo tones that are touched from a harp with man's fingers,(Vide Swinburne) can vie with the music that lingers,When blown through girl's mouth by a reed,And all of us swore as we heardThat her singing was truly divine,And that all the more our hearts she stirredBecause of that wonderful wine.

Who loves not woman, wine and song,Reads Greeley and Holland his whole life long.